


The Circle of my Arms

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, War Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-16 16:50:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18098291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: When a dinner date is interrupted by a case that cuts a little too close to home, Jack needs to address some things he'd rather keep hidden.





	The Circle of my Arms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [justsare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justsare/gifts), [deedeeinfj](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deedeeinfj/gifts).



> So, I began this fic for the fourth Phryne ficathon, and was unable to complete it for a variety of reasons. More on the prompt in a moment, but the most relevant point is that I finally completed it. Well, a version of it. Which I am mostly posting so that I stop tinkering.
> 
> As for the prompt. Well, prompts, really. The first was from justsare, who supplied a photograph from a collection of vintage crime scene photographs from Sydney. I won’t link to it directly, because it was graphic, but the crime in this fic is heavily influenced both by the image and the true story of the people depicted in it. If people are interested, I’ll see if I can find the original news articles. The second… well, after failing to complete the fic in time for ficathon, I realised that one of deedeeinfj’s unwritten prompts was also very apt for the story I was trying to tell, and so it lent itself to a title and epigraph.

* * *

_And so at last, you sleep, in the circle of my arms  
that push back the shadows so that you can rest _

―Pablo Neruda

* * *

Jack stood in front of the Windsor, doing his best not to tug on his dinner jacket or stuff his hands in his pockets. He was a grown man, not prone to doubt or nervousness, but he had also seen the look in Phryne’s eyes that afternoon as she’d asserted she had an appointment with the Fleuri sisters before their dinner. No good could come from a look like that.

Oh, it wouldn’t be anything particularly shocking―she knew as well as he did that the precarious acceptance of their courting depended on an impeccable public image, no matter what scandalous things they did behind closed doors. No, it would be some small detail that would drive him to distraction, until he was half-hard with wanting before the first course.

He was looking forward to it.

Glancing down the street again, he spotted the Hispano and did his best to hide his smile. The tyres squealed as she pulled to a neat stop, exiting the driver’s side door with all the regality of a queen and passing the car into the care of the valet.

Fuck.

Her dress was dark green and clearly designed to drive him insane―the knotted straps on her shoulders highlighting the clavicle he longed to kiss, the material around her hips dipping and drawing his eyes to the treasure beneath, the rippling silk begging him to touch. And then she turned, the jeweled strap across her back catching the light, and he wondered whether he could just encourage her into taking a room for the night, and to hell with dinner.

“Hello, Jack,” she said, turning back to stride towards him with complete purpose; the gown might be an opening salvo in whatever game she wished to play, but there was no pretense in her genuine pleasure at seeing him, or in the way she reached out to adjust his lapels with a smile. “Did you enjoy your afternoon without my meddling?”

“You heard the word ‘paperwork’ and fled for the hills, Miss Fisher,” he said dryly. “Your absence was hardly altruism.”

“Of course it was, darling,” she said, tilting her head and slipping her hand into the crook of his arm with complete ease as she led them towards the hotel. “I could have quite happily sat on the edge of your desk and pestered you endlessly with insignificant questions.” Her voice became higher as she mimicked herself, “ _What’s that, Jack? Do you think our murderer knew he’d be caught? Are you quite certain that’s how you spell establishment?_ ”

“At least the scenery would have been an improvement.”

“Jack!” she said, mock-scandalised. “You do say the sweetest things.”

They reached the entrance to the hotel, and the doorman gestured them inside with a practiced sweep of his hand; Phryne smiled and thanked him, and Jack almost pitied the man. When she looked like that, beautiful and open and joyful, there was no man alive who stood a chance of withstanding her. Admittedly, only a fool would want to.

Jack Robinson was not a fool. But he would admit that that in the weeks since her return to Melbourne, he’d done his best to resist her all the same. Not entirely, never entirely, but enough to remain _interesting_. She was not fickle or inconstant, and he knew her affections were sincere, but he was not so naive as to think she’d be entertained long by willing capitulation. And so the game continued―forward, back, an intimacy revealed, another concealed. He doubted there was any mystery she wouldn’t eventually solve, but he had no intention of making it easy.

As they crossed the lobby to the restaurant of the hotel, Phryne paused and spoke with several people―her natural gregariousness and position meant that she often ran into friends when they were out, and she would always smile and introduce Jack with a tone that, to Jack’s continual surprise and slight consternation, bordered on pride. As they approached the doors to the restaurant, they met a small woman who reminded Jack eerily of a sparrow.

“Aurora, darling, it’s lovely to see you!” Phryne greeted her, then turned to gesture towards Jack. “May I introduce Inspector Jack Robinson of the Victorian Police Force?”

Jack extended his hand and the woman looked at him appraisingly, moving from sparrow to hawk with a tilt of her head. As a policeman, he could command a room without raising his voice, but here… here he was a man with a seven-year-old dinner jacket and a slightly patchy education. He refused to shift uncomfortably, but the impulse was there.

“Jack’s the best policeman in Melbourne,” Phryne said, either unaware of the awkwardness or refusing to acknowledge it through sheer force of will.

“Miss Fisher,” he murmured, tilting his head towards her and hoping she saw the reprimand in his eyes; from the moue of her lips she had, and also had no intentions of paying any heed.

“What, Jack?” she simpered, not at all sincerely. “I am entitled to my opinions, surely?”

He rolled his eyes.

“Usually those opinions are far more discerning,” he said, but he smiled all the same; she was incorrigible, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

Aurora looked at him a moment longer, before deciding he was irrelevant and turning her attentions back to Phryne.

“Some of us were about to get a table for dinner, if you’d both like to join?”

Which struck Jack as his idea of hell, but he kept his expression neutral. He’d survived through more than a few less-than-ideal dinner companions. Phryne laughed and shook her head.

“Another time, perhaps,” she said.

Aurora nodded and swept away. Jack gave Phryne a minuscule smile.

“Miss Fisher, I really hope I didn’t―”

“Absolutely not, Jack,” she said firmly. “Aurora’s a sweet girl, but far too fixated on uncovering gossip. She’d do well to find herself some useful occupation soon, which might perhaps be the first time Aunt Prudence and I agree on something.” She reached out and adjusted his bow tie, her eyes hungry. “And besides, you look positively delectable this evening. I’m not sure I’ll get all the way through the meal, and this makes it much easier to abscond.”

He moved his hand to her waist, his thumb stroking over her hip softly. Watched her lips curl in that way that spoke of secret amusement. Felt the inexorable draw, the desire crackling between them. He had thought that this connection might be fleeting, knew that it still could be, but it hadn’t dimmed yet.

“Dinner first, Jack,” she said quietly, her gaze on his lips.

He coughed, stepping back and dropping his hand from her hip.

“Right,” he said, offering up the crook of his arm once more. “Shall we?”

They were quickly seated in a table in a quiet corner where they could talk with relative privacy and observe the room; some habits neither of them could easily break. The conversation was, as always, quick and clever; the food was no less than he’d come to expect from the Windsor; and the company… the company was unsurpassable. Especially when she absently trailed a hand against her collarbone or along her neck, reminding Jack where the evening would lead; that it would lead there, that their friendship had led them there, still astounded him.

They were just finishing the main course and Jack was debating whether the hotel’s pavlova stood a chance of tasting half so nice as what was on the after-dinner menu, when a concierge approached the table.

“A telephone call for Inspector Robinson, ma’am,” he said, addressing himself to Phryne before turning to look at Jack. “The constable said it was urgent.”

Jack sighed and resisted the urge to run his hand over his face. It was likely nothing―the newest recruits had only recently graduated from the academy and they did tend to need extra guidance, which could be dealt with over the telephone―but if chafed all the same. He’d has too many dinners interrupted over the years for anything else.

“Apologies, Miss Fisher,” he said to Phryne, setting his napkin aside before rising and following the concierge to the telephone in the lobby.

“Jack Robinson,” he said into the receiver.

“Oh, sir, I’m glad we could reach you,” said Hugh Collins on the other end of the line and Jack’s gut sunk. If _Collins_ was calling him, the chances of escaping with nothing but a minor inconvenience had gotten considerably lower. “We’ve had an… incident.”

“What sort of incident?” he sighed.

“Two bodies, sir.”

Bugger.

“I’ll need the address,” he said.

Phryne might very well kill him.

―――

When Jack re-entered the restaurant, Phryne could read the frustration rolling off him even at a distance. She turned to the waiter standing at her elbow.

“I’m afraid that will be all for tonight,” she said. “Please put the meal on my account.”

He nodded in acquiesce and moved away, and Phryne waited for Jack to return to the table before rising.

“A case?” she asked.

His mouth twisted. “I’m afraid so. I could come by later tonight, if I’m not there too late?”

“Nonsense,” she said. “I’ll drive you.”

“And then head directly home?” he asked; she stared at him blankly.

“That wasn’t the plan, no. I thought I might… have a nose around. Professional interest, you understand.”

He gave the sort of weary sigh she recognised was mostly pretense.

"Miss Fisher, if I were stepping out with a librarian, that would not mean she was invited to my crime scene to re-order the victim's novels."

She gave him a grin as she took his arm and manoeuvred him towards the door.

"Well, fortunately for you Jack, I'm not a librarian,” she said brightly. “And I have a motorcar with me, which I happen to know you do not."

It did not take a detective to realise he would have taken a taxi to the hotel, because they intended to leave dinner together and she really did not fancy having him leave earlier than necessary to retrieve the vehicle in the morning. The man was quite skittish enough without giving him a reason, and he was remarkably good at finding one. Not his most endearing quality, she would admit. It was fortunate, then, that he was without a vehicle, because otherwise she was quite certain he’d _actually_ put out a good effort to keep her off the scene, and that would just be dreadfully inconvenient.

“I can make quite a fuss about how our perfectly respectable dinner was disturbed, if that would appease you,” she said. “Very little scandal to be had in a meal at the Windsor.”

Her Aunt Prudence’s mastery of gossip had nothing on the police force, when it came down to it.

“That won’t be necessary, Miss Fisher,” he said, then gave a sly smile. “In a dress like that, they’d never believe you.”

She laughed in delight. The Fleuri sisters had really outdone themselves on the gown, in truth; it was deceptively simple, but remarkably suggestive to the right man. And Jack was very much the right man. His esteemed colleagues a little less so, in her experience, but even they could admire its more obvious assets, since she doubted they’d be doing their due diligence with the crime scene. Really, it was just her luck that she’d fall for such a conscientious police officer, when there was a whole world of cads and layabouts she could have entertained herself with instead.

“I am sorry about this,” he said quietly, the amusement fading from his eyes. “Collins sounded―”

“Don’t apologise,” Phryne replied. “There’s really no need. I was well aware of the hours the occupation demands before I ever entertained the notion of bedding you.”

His lips twitched.

“Liar,” he accused. “You considered it the first time we ever met.”

“Well, yes, but that was about a mildly entertaining fling because the company aboard my ship home was _terribly_ dull,” she said lightly. “The temptation to get _you_ into bed though… that was a developing notion.”

He shook his head slightly, and she couldn’t quite discern whether it was doubt or confusion. Or possibly an aversion to having this discussion in what was, technically, a public space. She squeezed his bicep and stepped through the door, nodding to the doorman once more and speaking to the valet.

“Now,” she said, once the young man had left to retrieve the Hispano, “where are we headed?”

He gave an address in what she knew to be a quiet, working class area. The sort of place where respectability was hard won and hard worn, but sincere.

“Murder?” she asked.

“Possibly. There are two bodies. Husband and wife.”

The possibilities sprung to mind as quickly as she knew they must have for Jack―accident, murder, suicide. Or, most likely, a combination thereof.

“Did Hugh give you more information?”

Jack shook his head.

“He sounded… rattled.”

Unlikely to be an accident, then. Not precisely how she’d hoped to spend the evening, but she had to admit she was curious. The valet arrived with the Hispano, and Phryne slid behind the wheel; sparing a small smile at Jack, she pulled into traffic and headed towards the address Hugh had supplied.

Fifteen minutes and a mostly silent drive later, she parked the motorcar and looked towards their crime scene―the home was a small bungalow with an even smaller front garden, both the building and the grounds well-tended but deeply worn. The scraggly lemon tree had borne only a handful of fruits, the clapboard paint was almost entirely worn away, and the curtains in the windows were faded to the palest yellow. Phryne recognised the type well―there might not be much money, but there was pride. Whatever secrets they found across that threshold, it was a _home_. Had been a home.

Hugh had seemingly heard their arrival, because he stepped out of the door and waved slightly to catch their attention. Even at a distance he seemed uncharacteristically pale; the last time Phryne could recall seeing him so unsettled was the case with the Gratitude Girls. A prickle of foreboding ran down Phryne’s spine, but she dismissed it quickly; no point in borrowing trouble, after all. She and Jack both stepped out of the car, striding up the path together. No arms were offered or held, no heads tilted in silent communication. This was the investigation, and whatever they were outside of it held no place here.

“Hello, Hugh,” Phryne said.

“Miss. Sir,” he said, shifting awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to―”

“Nonsense, Hugh. Jack and I both know you wouldn’t have interrupted our plans without need. Are they inside?”

“Uh, yes. Yes. In the… in the bedroom, towards… you’ll see it.”

Phryne spared a glance towards Jack, who was stone-faced―clearly he found Hugh’s reactions as concerning as she did―and then stepped inside. It was a small parlour, as fastidiously cared for as the outside―three armchairs by the fire, the material nearly worn away in places, with a basket of knitting sat between two of them, and a book and spectacles on the table by the third; photos and knick-knacks carefully arranged on the mantelpiece; a vase of fresh-cut flowers a riotous burst of colour. It was a welcoming scene, which made the shattered crockery and bloody drag marks all the more horrific. Phryne turned back towards the door she’d just entered, her heart thudding as she saw the bloody handprint on the back of it; Jack followed her gaze, cheek twitching when he spotted it.

Having a better idea of what waited her at the end of the blood trail, Phryne followed it into the next room. The woman was blonde, though it was hard to tell―the blood pooled around her head had begun to dry to a rusty shade of brown. The man was sprawled across her legs, a Webley pistol inches from his hand. His blood looked fresher; Jack moved before she did, crouching down to touch it with bare fingers. It was still tacky; he grimaced and wiped his hand on a handkerchief pulled from a pocket, the cream-coloured cloth marred by the red.

“No prizes for guessing what happened here,” he said flatly.

“No,” Phryne agreed. “But it’s best to be thorough.”

Tearing her eyes away from the body, she turned her attentions to the surroundings. It was a small bedroom, kept with the same care as the rest of the house. A rug on the floor was ruched up and an upended chair the only sign of the struggle that had taken place. On the night stand there was a photograph; Phryne picked it up carefully, noting the happy smiles of the couple, the way his arms wrapped around her waist and she tilted her head against his shoulder. So very different to the tableau before her.

“Do we have names?” she asked, replacing the photograph on the table and opening the drawer in the hopes of finding… something.

“Mona and Richard Sinclair,” Hugh said from the doorway. “They were found by Richard’s sister after work.”

“Where is she, Collins?”

“Uhh, with a neighbour. Constable Reynolds is with her, she’s quite shaken.”

“Understandably,” Phryne said. “I don’t think we’ll get much information from the scene, Jack, perhaps we should…?”

Jack nodded in agreement and stood up, gesturing Phryne ahead with a wave of his hand. She quickly exited the bedroom, spotting the bloodied handprint of Mona Sinclair on the front door once more as she swept through it. Once outside, she took a deep breath; she hadn’t realised how the coppery tang of blood had filled her senses until it was gone. Jack was only a step behind and paused himself; Phryne turned, half-curious as to his reasons, but his expression was inscrutable.

“House to the left,” he said, “according to Collins.”

It was a nearly identical bungalow, though the faded curtains were blue instead of yellow and there was a child’s bicycle against the wall; Phryne knocked firmly, Jack at her shoulder, and was greeted by a somewhat harried looking woman.

“Can I help you?”

“We’re with the police,” Phryne said, only then realising what a sight they must pose in their dinner clothes.

“Inspector Robinson,” Jack said, extending his card. “Miss Fisher is a… liaison with City South.”

Which was at best an exaggeration, but it served its purpose; the woman nodded and stepped aside.

“I’ll make some tea,” she said, gesturing towards the sofa where another woman sat, clutching a handkerchief in her hands. A constable Phryne knew in passing stood by the fireplace awkwardly; she gave him a small smile.

“Miss Sinclair?” Jack said. “Inspector Jack Robinson. This is Miss Fisher, she works with the police. We have some questions to ask you.”

“Of course,” Miss Sinclair said hoarsely. “I’m not certain… that is―” she cleared her throat, tilting her chin up slightly. “I don’t believe there’s much mystery about what happened, Inspector Robinson.”

“Can you tell us what happened when you arrived?” Jack began, taking a seat across from the woman and leaning forward slightly. Phryne stood to his right, resting her hand on the back of the chair.

“I came home after work, same as always, you know? Mona usually has a hot meal when I arrive; money is tight, but we make do. Better than living alone, at least.” She gave a weak smile. “There was no answer when I knocked, and I thought maybe Rich had had one of his incidents…”

“Incidents?” Phryne prompted softly.

“Yes. It was…” she struggled to put it in words. “Perhaps I should start from the beginning? I don’t...” she gave a sad laugh. “I don’t know where to begin.”

Jack leaned forward even more, resting a hand on Miss Sinclair’s knee; it was an act of comfort, and Phryne loved him for it, even here, even now.

“When you’re ready, Miss Sinclair,” he said, his voice smooth and steady.

Miss Sinclair sniffed, dashing away a tear from her eye.

“Rich is―was, Rich was older than me by just over a year. He always… he was the sweetest brother a girl could want. He taught me to ride his bicycle when my father refused to buy me one.” Her mouth twisted. “I’m sure he wasn’t perfect, but… I worshipped him, really. And then I introduced him to Mona, who was at school with me, and it was instantaneous. I used to say that I’d never marry unless I could find a love like that. They’d only been stepping out for a few months when he proposed, and they were married three weeks later.” Miss Sinclair looked up, hands nervously twisting her handkerchief once more. “There’s a photo, on the mantelpiece. Their wedding day. You should… you should see it. See that it wasn’t always…”

“What happened?” Phryne asked, and Miss Sinclair gave a bitter laugh.

“The war happened. They’d been married a year or so by then, talking about children. Mona was always knitting little hats and such. Then the war came and Rich shipped off and that was that for five years.” Her tone grew icy. “They ruined my gentle brother, Miss Fisher, and had the audacity to pin a medal to his chest and send him home.”

Phryne could fill in the rest herself, but the relief of talking about it seemed to roll off Miss Sinclair in waves; she kept speaking, handkerchief twisting, as Phryne felt the weight of a war more than a decade in the past begin to fill the room.

“He wasn’t the same when he came home,” she said. “Nightmares. Scared of loud noises. Scared of silence. He couldn’t keep a job, drank too much just for some relief. I moved in with them to help. And he had incidents when he’d… snap, I suppose? He’d fight us as if his life depended on it. Mona had more than a few bruises over the years. And then he’d be well again, horrified by his actions.”

The neighbour arrived, carrying a tray of tea things.

“He’d beg her to leave,” she said, placing the tray on the table and straightening. “I would hear them sometimes.”

“Mona wouldn’t leave him though,” Miss Sinclair added, nodding her head. “Not when he had more good days than bad. They decided that children would wait until he was better, if they came at all. Those little hats became socks for the local hospital without another word, and… he was getting better. I swear to you, he was getting better. He wasn’t drinking, hadn’t had an incident like that in… months. There was… there was even talk of him seeking employment again. I brought in a paycheque and Mona would work when she could, but money was tight. And Rich hated being a burden. ‘None of that now,’ Mona would say, and send him off on some household task.” She wiped away another tear. “It must sound so absurd, seeing how it… They loved each other. Even at the worst, there was never any doubt that they loved each other.”

Phryne remembered the photograph on the bedside table, and felt an urge to weep for the people she saw in it.

“And tonight?” Jack prompted.

“We always knocked when we got home,” Miss Sinclair said. “So Rich knew who was home. There was no answer and I thought perhaps he’d taken a turn. The curtains were drawn and I couldn’t see inside, so I went around the back of the house. And then… I could see his legs. Some blood. I ran back to the front, unlocked the door. Hoped I was wrong. But there… there was so much blood, inspector. I came here, the police were telephoned… I don’t know… I don’t understand _why_.”

Phryne doubted there was an explanation that would make sense to an outsider. Remembered the disparity in the blood. Wondered whether Richard Sinclair had come back from his break in reality and realised what he’d done, had been unable to live with the truth. Wondered whether it mattered, in the end, or whether this tragedy would be written off as nothing but casualties in a war that never seemed to end.

“Excuse me,” she said, “I need to speak with Constable Collins.”

She tried not to hurry as she left the room.

―――

Jack found Phryne outside, clearly trying to regain control of her emotions; she felt deeply, he knew, and as she paced he could read it all as it poured off her―her sadness, her frustrations, her boiling anger with no target to unleash it on. He wanted, so much, to touch her. To ground himself with a hand on her elbow, and to show her he understood. But there was a job to do, and weaknesses he was not yet able to share. The weight of it might break them.

“Miss Fisher,” he said, “did you find Collins?”

She spun on her heel, somehow unaware of his arrival.

“Uh, no,” she said; he wondered whether he’d ever heard her hesitate before. He wouldn’t call it out. “I was running through the statements.”

“Something strikes you as wrong?”

He’d quieted his own niggles with the knowledge that it was wishful thinking, an external monster on which to pin so horrific a crime. The scene had been visceral, the contrast of happy domesticity and violence hitting him in a way few crime scenes did. But he trusted Phryne’s intuition, perhaps even more than his own, and if she suspected more to the story…

She gave her head a shake.

“Quite a bit,” she said. “But no, not suspicious.”

Damn.

“Best to be thorough though?” Jack asked.

She smiled. “I’ve never known you not to be.”

“Back to the scene then.”

She nodded, and the crossed the small patch of grass to re-enter the Sinclair home to continue their investigation.

It was past midnight, bodies removed by the coroner’s office and every neighbour interviewed and every detail scrutinised a dozen times, when Jack had to concede defeat. Unless the autopsies uncovered some unexpected detail, there was no evidence this was anything but a murder-suicide precipitated by war trauma. No sign of an intruder, skin beneath Mrs Sinclair’s fingernails seemed to match gouges on Mr Sinclair’s arm, the discrepancy in time of death… as much as he wished otherwise, he ran a hand over his face and had to admit that his initial conclusions were supported by an abundance of physical evidence and witness statements. Pulling his hand away, he did a double take as he realised he still wore his tuxedo; the interrupted dinner felt like a long time ago.

“It’s late,” Phryne said, coming into the bedroom. “You should get some rest, Jack. We can look at this again in the morning.”

She was right. He knew she was right. But his eyes still scanned the room, looking for answers that had died with Richard Sinclair. That afternoon or over a decade before, he wasn’t entirely certain which. He glanced at his watch.

“Would you mind driving me home?” he asked. “The trams won’t be running this late, and Collins has already left with the police motorcar.”

“You’re not…” she glanced over her shoulder as if to be certain they were alone, “you’re not intending to come home with me?”

“I’m hardly fit company at the moment,” he said, surprised. “I intend to have a stiff drink, a hot shower, and go to bed.”

She gave him an unreadable smile, slightly wavering at the edges.

“No, of course,” she said. “I just thought…” her expression firmed, and he could not shake the feeling he had misstepped somewhere along the line, “I thought my place was closer. I’m happy to drive you, though.”

“I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you,” he said. “I know this evening―”

“Wasn’t what I had planned?” she cut him off. “I told you, Jack, I know the demands of the job. I’m not upset. Quite the opposite, really. I thought―well, it hardly matters. If you’re ready to go?”

“Ahh, yes,” Jack said, giving the bedroom a final sweep of his gaze before following Phryne into the Hispano still parked on the street.

They hadn’t gone very far when Phryne sighed.

“Jack, have I ever given you the impression you’re unwelcome in my home?”

“Pardon?”

“Do you think you’re unwelcome in my home?” she repeated, her voice clipped.

“Never,” he said, perplexed. “What…?”

“I know that our arrangement is a tad unconventional, but I cannot imagine why you are willing to stay the night after… intimacy, but seem to think your presence is otherwise an imposition.”

“Do I?” he asked, well aware of the answer. To stay was to become complacent, and complacency might be the end of them.

“It’s the only explanation I can see. Unless you have a sudden hankering for a cold bed and, I suspect, no breakfast in the morning?” He was silent, uncertain what to say, and she nodded. “No, the problem clearly lies with my home. So do you feel unwelcome? Is it the discomfort of greeting Mr. Butler over a plate of eggs? Is the morning tea that unbearable? What _is_ it? Because, quite frankly, I expected you in my bed tonight and I would like to know why that’s changed.”

“Phryne, it’s not―I’m tired, I’ll be asleep within ten minutes of walking through the door. Hardly a night of passion.”

“And that’s the only reason to stay?” she asked, her voice becoming higher and faster; not quite her lying voice, but it invoked the same sort of trepidation in him. “Or is it you think it’s the only reason I want you to?”

He could blame the exhaustion. He could blame the interrupted dinner. He could blame the crime scene for stripping him raw in ways he rarely experienced nowadays. But whatever it was that opened his mouth, he regretted the words even as he said them.

“Is it?”

Thank goodness for the late hour, because she stopped the Hispano in the middle of the street and sat, gripping the wheel so hard her knuckles turned white in the glow from the streetlamps.

“Is that really what you think of me?” she asked flatly.

“No! No, I just…”

There was no good explanation for what he’d said, and no way to unsay it. He reached out tentatively, laying his hand over hers. She didn’t respond, but she didn’t pull away either. They sat there for a moment, then she gave herself a shake.

“I’ll take you home,” she said, her tone unreadable.

He tried a dozen times to apologise on the silent drive to his cottage, but each time the words caught in his throat―too sincere or not sincere enough, too flagellating or too quick to absolve himself of the hurt he knew he’d caused. This had gone beyond the game, and it was inexcusable. She kept her eyes on the road, and the uncharacteristic detail scraped against his already exposed nerves. Eventually they arrived at his cottage, and he exited the vehicle as soon as it came to a stop, desperate to be away before the explosion hit.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Phryne said, “unless that’s a problem?”

“No. No, I’ll…” he gestured vaguely. “I’ll see you then, Miss Fisher.”

She flinched. He nearly tripped over his own feet as he retreated up the garden path and into the darkness of his home, trying to ignore the creeping suspicion that some things could not be recovered from. Heading into his parlour, he poured himself two fingers of whiskey and slumped into his armchair. He nursed it slowly, his thoughts a cacophony of sensations and memories―the crime scene, the argument, the trenches. He loosened his bow tie, tossing it onto the table absently. Dropped his head back, the moment in the car playing out against closed eyes. He’d been a fool, tired and defensive and not entirely ready to be honest.

A loud pounding sound made him jump, spilling the half-drunk whiskey over his jacket. It was the door, he realised, a revelation that took a moment too long. A second knock, even louder than the first, came; Jack stood up, removing his whiskey-soaked jacket and heading towards the corridor.

Phryne stood on the other side of the door, her chin tilted up as if daring him to remark on her presence but not intruding on his space. He stepped aside and gestured her in, wondering whether this would be the end of it all.

He wasn’t ready for this to be the end of it all.

Oh, he doubted he’d ever be, but this… not like this. He scrubbed his hand over his face, bracing himself for her anger, well-earnt as it may be.

“I don’t want you to apologise,” she said as she stepped into his house. “I can’t―” her voice cracked, “I am _furious_ with you right now, Jack.”

He wasn’t certain how to respond, and he glanced at his watch; it had been almost half an hour since he’d left the Hispano.

“Have you been sitting outside all this time?” he asked; it seemed safer than the other questions, though the warning flash in her eyes suggested it might not be.

“I am furious with you right now, Jack, but…” she gave a small huff. “I would much rather be angry _with_ you than alone right now.”

She reached out, more hesitant than he could ever remember, taking first one hand and then the other in hers, and stepping close enough to press her head against his chest. They stood there for a long moment, breathing in tandem, neither one willing to disturb the tentative truce. Finally she pulled away, giving him a small smile. Strained, yes, but a smile.

“Bed?” she asked.

He nodded. He might regret it later, but in that moment… in that moment he wanted nothing more than the way she held his hand as they retreated to his small bedroom. A lamp was turned on, casting a warm yellow glow, and they each undressed. He watched her remove the gown, the guilt he felt at how the night was supposed to end blunted by sheer exhaustion. There was no artifice in the removal, and when she was down to a silk chemise she left the room to attend to her toilette and then returned to slip beneath the sheets. He followed suit, turning off the lamp. The small distance between them was bridged by brushing hands, a promise of contact even if they could not close the gap entirely; they so often slept entwined that the absence was felt, but it was enough to hope.

Too exhausted for anything else, he fell asleep within minutes.

―――

Phryne lay awake, watching the shadows flit across the ceiling, the faces of so many men lurking behind her eyelids. Beside her, Jack slept restlessly; her hand flexed, resisting the urge to reach out and touch him. For her benefit or his, she wasn’t entirely certain. She was still furious with him, with the way he held back even now, with the way she could never be quite certain where the line between game and reluctance was. But she did not want to be alone, not tonight, not with the memories nipping at her heels. And even now, even now, with emotions strained and uncertainty prickling at her, Jack’s presence was the one she preferred, the one she sought out.

She wasn’t entirely certain that he understood, but she was at a loss at how to explain. How she could be so _angry_ and still want this. How she had found many ways to deal with these nights over the years, but none were as effective as his quiet surety and understanding beside her. How she craved this, how she’d found comfort in people but never one person before. How she’d ached to be with him even as he tried to hide. How she knew she could do this alone, and how very much she didn’t want to. Wouldn’t need to, if he would stop hiding behind excuses; she did not expect him to twine his life with hers entirely, neither of them seemed suited for it, but this denial, this doubt… it was untenable when the solution was so simple. Be open. Honest. Present. Tears pricked her eyes and she blinked them away, determined not to cry.

Rolling onto her side, she watched him, seeing the twist of his lips and the furrow in his brow, his expression so much more open in sleep than awake, so much easier to read the depths of him; she usually enjoyed observing him in these moments, open and boyish and happy, but tonight the pain on his face made her heart ache. A strand of hair had fallen across his forehead, the sign of an inspector undone; she gently smoothed it back into place, fingers whisper soft so as not to wake him. Her fingers drifted to his throat, feeling the rapid pulse of his carotid artery against her skin, and she held it there for several long minutes, the connection enough.

He groaned, body jerking, a thin sheen of sweat breaking over his skin.

“Jack,” she whispered, trying not to startle him but unwilling to let him suffer.

There was no response, whatever nightmare he was experiencing holding him firm. Another groan, a grunt. She moved her hand to his shoulder, giving it a gentle shake.

“Jack,” she repeated, more firmly this time. “Jack, wake up.”

No response, and she shook him again. He’d begun to move in earnest now, a pained groan and a jerk and suddenly the full weight of him crashing atop her, the impact leaving her breathless. She tightened her grip, fingertips digging into the flesh of his shoulders, as she pushed against him, willing him to wake up.

“Jack!”

He didn’t wake.

―――

_He can’t remember the last time his feet were dry, properly dry. Can’t remember the last time he felt clean, or slept more than an hour at a time, or when precisely this long march had started. The world is varying shades of brown, all mud and uniforms and the rustiness of dried blood, and sometimes he forgets anything else is real. In this world, brown is more than a colour; it’s a smell, a taste, a bone-deep exhaustion. He tries to remember his wife, to gain some comfort from the image of her smile, from the red of her lips and the blue of her eyes, and finds his memory blank. His hand scrambles beneath his uniform, extracting the slim silver tin from its place near his heart; his fingers, numb with cold, fumble against the delicate latch; his feet falter as he attempts to keep marching._

_It takes an eternity, but the tin eventually falls open to reveal the weather-beaten photograph stuck inside the lid―a woman with finger spectacles smiling at the camera, vibrant even in sepia. He has no more than a glimpse before a gust of wind makes the edges flutter and he slams the tin shut to keep it safe. He returns it to its hiding place, safe once more, as he is jostled from behind._

_They trudge along the duckboards, surrounded by water and mud and the towering remnants of what had once been trees, the air acrid with smoke, a line of soldiers moving from one brown hell to another. Ahead he sees a man lose balance, boots slipping on the wet duckboard, and fall into the mud; he’s too far behind to help, can only watch helplessly as the man flounders beneath the weight of his equipment, those men within reach still march, unaware. He stumbles, falling out of line; sees a too-elegant hand catch his elbow and pull him upright. He turns to thank his rescuer but there is only the long line of soldiers behind, incessantly marching. He’s lost his place now, the gap where he once marched already filled, and so he stands on the very edge of the path, trying not to fall._

_The mudbound soldier is still moving, and Jack is not a stupid man; the distance is too far to save him, but he’ll try. He has to try. So he moves, ducking and weaving through the marching men, his balance thrown off by the weight of his pack; he pauses to toss what he can aside and keeps moving until he reaches the man whose desperate thrashing is weakening. He crouches down, grabs the tail of the man’s jacket, and_ pulls _. He’s sweating, arms aching, by the time he gets the man back onto the boards, his breath heavy in his chest. The now-freed soldier merely looks at him, expression hidden by a gas mask that reveals nothing, then stands to rejoin the marching line, slipping seamlessly into the faceless sea. Jack knows he should rejoin the line too, but he sees another man fall and knows he won’t; he’s faster this time, but also too late―by the time he has hauled the man to safety, he is met with a mud-caked face and brown eyes staring unseeingly into the sky. There’s no time to mourn; there’s another, then another, then another. He’s not sure how long he has been going, saving some and failing others, alone, exhausted, unable to stop, when the first shot cracks the air._

_Jack ducks instinctively, hands flying to his rifle as if it will be enough to protect him from mortar fire as the world explodes, brown punctuated by bursts of red and yellow fire, by agonised screams and the gurgles that precede death, by the coppery tang of blood. His own throat is raw and he knows he must be screaming, but it is drowned out by the cacophony that has descended._

_The line of men is still moving, stepping over him as they march, oblivious to the carnage surrounding them. He tries to pull them down, tries to save them, tries to strategise as he realises the futility. He needs cover. The remains of the forest are thicker up ahead, but he won’t get there in time, not if he sticks to the duckboards, and the mud will drown a man. He has no choice though; he bolts, crouched as low as he dares with his rifle still ready, along the duckboard as far as he can and then into the mud. It sucks at him, threatening to pull him down if he hesitates._

_A heavy fog is coming in, and with it a disorienting inability to judge distance or direction. There are others now, men who’d followed him across the void; some stumble and are sucked into the mud and others are shot down. He ducks, veers, attempts to reach the ones he can, hauls the fallen up, pushes them towards the cover of the trees, searches for the next one, any delay to his own safety worth it if he can save another. He has only seconds warning of an incoming shell; a whistling sound echoing through his ears, a shape approaching through the fog._

_“Get down!” he shouts, waving his arms, his words swallowed by the general chaos; he grabs the nearest body and pushes instead, reaches for the next one, hoping the mud will not prove to be their undoing. “Get down!”_

―――

“Jack!”

His name cut through the haze, enough at least to open his eyes, though he was still half in the dream, his weight above her and a frantic contortion to his face. She shook him again, the action bordering on violent, trying to reach him. He was difficult to wake, difficult to move.

“Jack!”

She moved at the same moment she did. His cock pressed between her legs and she gave a small gasp, not expecting his erection, more physiological than arousal; he recoiled at the contact, rocking onto his hands and knees. He was panting, disoriented, but awake; she reached for him and his head dropped. She held him for several moments, saying nothing as he breathed heavily, his head on her breastbone, her fingers smoothing through his hair as he tried to gain control. She could feel his arms trembling as he held himself over her body, the sheen of perspiration visible in the moonlight.

“This is why you didn’t want to come home with me,” she said quietly. It hadn’t occurred to her that this could be the reason, that there could _be_ a reason beyond his taciturn nature and reticence.

He nodded tersely, head still against her chest.

“I couldn’t be certain, but…”

There were very few moments in Phryne Fisher’s life that had left her genuinely at a loss for words, but this was among them. She wanted to scold him for hiding this, but understood the impulse; she wanted to murmur words of comfort, but none seemed adequate; she wanted to drag every shadow from his past into the light and watch them burn, but that was not how shadows worked. So she ran her hands against his back, kneading the still tense muscles with gentle fingertips, letting the tenderness of her touches speak for her. _This_ she knew, the frisson of skin on skin a tangible reminder to be in the moment, to focus on being alive and not alone. She felt him shudder, a bone deep, aching motion, and a pained whimper escaped her own lips.

The noise made him lift his head, concern writ across his brow even now; she cupped his cheek and gave a reassuring smile, lopsided and tremulous with emotion, her thumb gliding softly over his slightly parted lips. His tongue darted out to wet them, nudging the pad of her thumb, and _want_ flooded her, murky and warm; she wanted him closer, wanted to blur the boundaries between them until she couldn’t be certain where they were, wanted _him_ to want it.

For a long, agonising moment, she thought he would pull away, that years of solitude would mean he’d regroup and then dismiss it, or never speak of it; she thought it because she knew those same impulses, had relied on them for so long. It would not break them if he did, though she craved it with an intensity that might have surprised her, before. But he tilted his head slightly, rising up her body to brush the softest of kisses against her lips, giving her a chance to retreat, a chance to tell him he’d misunderstood; she deepened the kiss instead, languidly exploring his mouth, holding him close.

She had made love to men before. Had even made love to _this_ man. She knew the differences well, but never before had she felt them so keenly. The slow slide of mouths, the reverence of touch, the intensity in his eyes, the trembling of his muscles beneath her palms. The sheer rightness as his cock pushed deep inside her, the slow, rolling presses moving him from deep to deeper, and the way she held his hips, wanting him deeper still. The full weight of his body against her, skin on skin, and the way she wrapped herself around him, wanting more. The inexorable buildup to climax, driven not by physical pleasures but the connection between them; the overwhelming love she felt as her body urged his closer was enough to steal her breath.

That same stubborn lock of hair had fallen across his forehead and she brushed it back; the open tenderness on his face when she did made tears prick her eyes and she kissed him again, willing him to understand. He was safe, and loved, and she was there.

She felt his orgasm as her own, a lingering press and a spreading warmth suffusing her body; she held him there, not moving, for a long time.

―――

Jack fell to his side, the twin exhaustion of nightmare and orgasm leaving him limbs heavy and his mind… calm. Some vague part of him felt he should be ashamed, or concerned, or… _something_ , but quite frankly he was too tired to think of raising his defenses. He was vaguely aware of Phryne leaving the bed, returning a short time later with a wash basin and flannel and a bottle of Jack’s best whiskey.

“I was going to make sandwiches,” she said, a small, teasing smile on her lips, “but like Old Mother Hubbard, your cupboard was bare.”

Jack grimaced and sat upright, taking the water and flannel and cleaning the sweat off him. Phryne poured two tumblers of whiskey while she waited for him to finish, then slid into the bed and handed him one. The drink was smooth as it went down, and Jack began to feel more alert. Phryne was contemplating her whiskey in the moonlight, and Jack leaned over to turn the bedside lamp on.

“Is that why you don’t always stay the night?” she asked quietly, then shook her head. “Don’t―you don’t need to answer that.”

“That bothers you,” he said as he turned back, the realisation strange. She’d said as much on the drive home, though he’d been too preoccupied to realise.

“A little. But if you don’t… you don’t need to justify your choices to me, Jack.”

The memory of her beneath him only minutes before came to him, the warm comfort of her body and the exquisite openness and honesty that had bordered on painful in her eyes; he reached out to take her hand, raising it to his lips to press a kiss to the palm. He could be honest.

“No,” he said. “Not… I suspected tonight, yes, because I know what tends to lead to those dreams. But they’re rare. Couple of times a year, maybe.” A thought occurred to him. “Did I hurt you? I can be… strident.”

She snorted.

“Impossible to wake, more like,” she said, “but no. No harm done.”

“Good.”

They were quiet for another moment, their hands still clasped, as Jack tried to articulate his answer.

“Phryne, you are… the most remarkable woman I’ve ever known. And I am keenly aware that however deeply you care for me, and I don’t doubt that, there will come a time when I am not remarkable enough to keep up. Rather selfishly, I would like that time to be as far away as possible. And if I can be clever enough, and challenging enough, and brave enough… I tell myself that I can make it that little bit longer. _That’s_ why I don’t always stay the night.”

“Oh.”

And one of the reasons he loved her was that she did not try to argue with him, or comfort him with false platitudes. Instead she turned to take his tumbler, setting hers and his onto the bedside table and turning off the lamp once more. In the semi-darkness she encouraged him to lie down with a soft press of her hand against his chest, then snuggled against him with her chin on his shoulder and a protective arm thrown across his chest.

“I’m selfish too, you know,” she eventually said, her fingers stroking his side sending him towards sleep. “There are times, times like tonight, where I want to gather my loved one close. Where I want to be certain they are safe, because the world is harsh and I _need_ them to be safe. If you’d rather not, I’ll understand, but never doubt that I want you there.”

He wanted, so badly, to be there, to take this offered intimacy; exhausted, he could not find the right words.

“Least your place has sandwiches,” he mumbled instead, knowing she’d understand, revelling in her soft laugh.

“Never doubt Mr. Butler,” she replied.

He was almost asleep, limbs too heavy to respond, when she spoke again, her voice low and filled with conviction. 

“And never doubt, Jack Robinson, that you are remarkable enough for me.”

He slept, dreamless and buoyant, until the sunlight had chased any lingering shadows away.


End file.
